


Fridge Jenga

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Christmas nonsense, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 18:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: According to Denmark, in the period of time leading up to Christmas, Norway has a butter problem.





	Fridge Jenga

**Author's Note:**

> Very belatedly crossposted from my tumblr.
> 
> I’d like to take this time to remind everyone about the [2011 Norwegian Butter Crisis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norwegian_butter_crisis). It doesn’t have much to do with this fic - aside from an offside remark -, but it’s something that’s kind of hilarious to read about in retrospect because of the international response at the time.

Denmark would not normally call himself a paranoid person - others probably would, but he, himself, _wouldn’t_ even if the only thing carrying his assertion forward, flying in the face of facts, was determinedly blinding, ignorant optimism -, but he’s beginning to get a little suspicious about how, every time he opens Norway’s fridge door these days, the sticks of butter on its shelves seem to be multiplying. Exponentially.

“…Norge?” Denmark calls, fridge door wide open in front of him as he eyes said butter sticks suspiciously. Their number can’t increase if he’s watching them, right? Giving it a prod to see if there’s any hopeful beer-bottle-shaped gaps between the overwhelming dairy. Malevolent entities prefer your blind spots.

“Mm?” Norway half-replies, probably still sitting where Denmark had last seen him, texting on the living room sofa. Passing behind him with a crate of beer in his hands to put away, Denmark had seen a chat open with Romania, along with some kind of discussion about bathtubs, discarded troll limbs and upcycling, and Denmark just. Isn’t going to get involved with that.

“Is your butter off?” he asks instead, looking back over his shoulder on the off-chance Norway might feel involved enough in the conversation to actually come and join him. And explain whatever butter-hell-dimension he’s currently got his fridge hooked up to. “I think it’s breedin’.”

Norway makes that noise of his that _probably_ means he’s amused but could also be a pretty good impression of a cat clearing its throat. “It’s for baking.”

Denmark pauses. And considers that. And the fridge full of butter in front of him - seriously, it’s _full,_ ceiling to floor, with butter sticks even invading the salad boxes and one stick pushing the pouring yoghurt Norway keeps beside his milk in the door for Iceland hard to the back.

And the seven large storage tins sitting on the kitchen benches nearby that Denmark had had to move so he could put the crate of beer down and open the fridge. The seven large storage tins that are no doubt full of _syv slag til jul på norsk -_ the seven sorts of traditional Norwegian Christmas biscuits - that Norway has _already_ made.

Denmark opens one of the tins, just to check, and - yup. _Sirupssnipper._

He steals one of the syrupy biscuits to munch, industriously contemplating the space (or lack of it) he has to work with. “Where am I s’pposed to put the _beer?_ ”

“Those were for later.” Norway appears as swiftly and silently as a wrathful ghost in his sock-clad feet, and Denmark flails his way sideways into the fridge door.

 _“Norge!”_ Denmark does _not_ choke on the _sirupssnipper_ in his mouth in his surprise, but probably only because the spirit of the season means baby Jesus loves him or something. “You have a problem.”

“Yes,” says Norway, and shuts the biscuit tin Denmark had been thieving from with the kind of ominous finality the Atlanteans must have felt when they saw the last _really big wave_ coming. His hair is looking all soft and mussed and pettable today and Denmark _had_ been hoping to run his fingers through it during some snuggling later, but the cool look of Norway’s eyes beneath it now suggests Denmark might lose those selfsame fingers if he tries. “It’s stealing my food.”

“A problem with _butter,_ ” Denmark tries again, swallowing around the lump of ill-gotten goods in his throat. Seriously, he knows Norway has been a bit paranoid about stocking up on butter after the year his country’d run out of the stuff _just in time_ for Christmas and all its buttery baking, but the amount in his fridge right now has got to be a little excessive.

Denmark already has an excessive nature; if _he_ thinks it’s bad, it’s gotta be.

“You know it’s not its own food group, yeah? You’ve gotta eat other stuff too. _Vegetables_ and things.”

“You don’t want to clear out my fridge for _vegetables_ though,” says Norway flatly, and, uh, yeah, that’s a point. Looks between Denmark and the crate of beer on his bench.

Denmark puts his hands on his hips. “Are you saying you don’t want _beer?_ ”

Norway tilts his head, somehow managing to look down his nose at Denmark despite being the shorter of the two of them. (One day - _one day, eventually, after_ centuries - Denmark will figure out how he manages to do that.) “Are you saying you don’t want my baking?”

Denmark points at the butter-stuffed fridge and clings - vainly - to the moral high ground of reason and sensible dietary decisions. “Who else you gonna feed with _this_ much butter?”

“Island.”

…

Denmark sensibly caves to the inevitable, closes the fridge door, and finds room for his beer in one of Norway’s cupboards before settling down on the sofa in the living room to watch terrible Christmas movies on TV with his host.

Norway, very charitably, rewards Denmark with a selection of his _syv slag_ on a plate, tucking himself up under Denmark’s arm and resuming the conversation on his phone with Romania.

(Later, after the _syv slag_ has gone, the films are over, and Norway has nodded off into a soft agreeable little pile that Denmark will happily scoop up and carry to bed just as soon as he’s sated his morbid curiosity, Denmark checks the fridge again. Just because.

Two new sticks of butter are now sitting in the salad box.)


End file.
